


Light the Corners of My Mind

by debwalsh



Series: Deb Gives Back [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Boys In Love, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Domestic Fluff, Fandom Trumps Hate, M/M, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-21 22:23:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13153251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debwalsh/pseuds/debwalsh
Summary: Another installment in my Meadowville Memories series, inspired by charity and other commissions I've had done over the past year.Bucky finds that their new life in the country lets his mind remember.  And with memory comes revelation.





	Light the Corners of My Mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Not-Worms](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Not-Worms).
  * Inspired by [Fandom Trumps Hate Commission by Not-Worms for Deb Walsh](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/346809) by Not-Worms on Tumblr. 



> Another wonderful charity commission that was done for me in 2017 is pre-war Steve and Bucky dancing by Not-Worms. This is the first of several commissions they did for me, and the first of the Fandom Trumps Hate commissions I received.

He was slumped down on their sofa, a garage sale find they’d both been thrilled to score, staring into the light that danced through the soft amber of his drink.  He was so far down the seat, his chin practically rested on his chest, and his legs were splayed wide, because he could, because he was allowed.  He could occupy space, he could be comfortable, it was permitted.

He smiled as he took a sip of his drink, a local mead made with peaches, and his smile deepened as the flavor of ripe fruit burst across his tongue, wafted over his nostrils, and filled his imagination with sunlight.  As he debated trying to balance his glass on his chest, an image flashed across his brain, a memory he closed his eyes and tried to catch.

_The parlor, crowded and loud, family from all over jammed on every possible sitting surface, him and Becca and Steve huddled under the table and out from underfoot where no one could step on Steve again.  Old Aunt Agatha and her big old clodhoppers had practically flattened Steve’s already flat feet, and Bucky’d wondered if he was gonna hafta carry him home on his back, or if maybe he could convince Ma to let him stay over.  Bucky liked it when Steve stayed over, and they crowded into his narrow bed, all snug and close and oh so warm._

_But a’course Steve’s Ma was planning to pick Steve up after her shift, when she came back from the hospital and sat down to a plate of warmed up leftovers, a cup of coffee, a big slice of pie, and all the family gossip she could stomach. Ma lived for that after dinner gabfest, sharing the day in quiet with her best friend.  Then Mrs. Sarah would gather Steve up and off they’d go, back to their apartment down the hall, laden with a carton tied up with string, and enough leftover meat and fixings, a couple of slices of pie, and a napkin full of cookies for Steve later on.  The cookies were from Bucky, carefully chosen for maximum sweetness and crunch, just the way Steve liked ‘em._

_In the meantime, Uncle Myron was snoring up a storm, snorting every few minutes fit to wake up the neighborhood, but still he slumbered on, grumbling to himself, the glass of amber liquid on his chest sloshing gently while Ma watched it with worry creasing her pretty features._

_Uncle Myron always did this, falling asleep in Pa’s best chair, arms dangling over the armrests, knees spread wide apart, his drink – scotch, neat, thanks George – balanced on his considerable tummy.  No one dared go near him to snatch the glass away, because he always woke up in time to grab the hand that reached, leaving bruises and a chewed off ear for their trouble.  And every time, he’d fall back asleep, until something startled him awake, and he sat up too fast, sending the glass careening to the ground, where it would shatter into a million, million pieces, splashing that neat scotch all over Ma’s beloved rug.._

_Ma had gotten smart this last year.   She gave Uncle Myron a sturdy glass she’d bought at Fenton’s Sundries just for the purpose.  And everyone waited to see what would happen when Uncle Myron inevitably woke …_

“Think Ma would’a been mad at me,” he said suddenly, drawing Steve’s attention away from the grate where he was feeding kindling to the fire.  Bucky glanced up at him and saw Steve turn, a confused frown on his face as the fire tossed up red and gold flickering against his pale skin.

“Huh?”

“Me, sittin’ like this.  Like Uncle Myron.  With my glass on my tummy.  Think she would’a been mad.”

Steve’s face dissolved into a wide smile, and Bucky again felt the sunlight, this time in the real world and not just his imagination.  “Well, yeah.  Uncle Myron always made a helluva mess, and he was a mean-spirited asshole in the bargain.  And she was always tellin’ you to sit up straight and ‘comport yourself like a gentleman’ – which only got your Irish up and made you slump even further.  Til your Dad got you by the ear and pulled you up.  Then she’d scold him for hurting you.  Always thought you played that up more than you needed to –“

“So I’d get a hug and a cookie, and Ma’d leave off about my posture.  Yeah, you’re right.  I do remember that, too,” Bucky answered with a grin stretching his lips, puffing his cheeks, as he heard his parents’ voices echoing in his memory. 

Steve’s smile broadened, lighting his eyes up in the way Bucky’d come to understand as, “I’m so proud of you, Bucky.”

Bucky was kind of proud of himself, too.  The memories – mostly good ones from Before – he always capitalized the word in his mind, Before the Army, Before Hydra, Before the Winter Soldier – came faster these days.  His therapist thought it was the fact that he wasn’t trying to force them so much as they came upon him when they were ready, when he was ready.  Since they’d moved to Meadowville, both he and Steve were more relaxed, but they were also busier, in ways that didn’t involve weapons, shields, or organizations bent on world domination.

They were still learning, but they were learning together.  Learning how to tend a garden, learning how to mow grass and trim trees.  How to be a part of a community rather than a squad.  The dance club, their yoga group, Steve’s art at the art center, Bucky’s tinkering with kids at the after school program. Learning how to care for a house and each other.  And now two kittens who’d taken up residence in their home and in their hearts.  Jules and Verne, a black cat and a tuxedo, just a couple of months old and already lords of their domain.

And in between, they took leisurely drives that led them down country lanes, journeys of discovery that brought them to old barns full of old furniture that felt familiar and right, to farmstands featuring local honey and baked goods, to tea shops and confectioners all too happy to feed the sweet tooths of two nonagenarians out of time.  And every so often, they’d embark on adventures with Steve’s Harley, to find secluded spots for picnics, maybe some fishing, sketching, cloud watching.  Maybe an assignation or two, where two men who were stupid in love could be even stupider together, rolling around in the grass or by the riverside, tracing promises into skin, mapping it with lips and touch, and generally making public nuisances of themselves.  It was a wonder nobody’d caught them at it yet.  That was, of course, half the thrill, Bucky reminded himself as he smiled to himself and took a sip of his peach mead.

So their days were full, their nights, too.  Bucky didn’t have time to worry at the memories, so they came of their own accord, in odd moments, or like this last one, triggered by an image that echoed a long ago sight or sound.

“What was it this time?” Steve asked softly, his eyes so full of earnest encouragement, Bucky felt the urge to smoosh a pillow in his face, then kiss him senseless.

He held up his glass, letting it hover over his chest.  “Uncle Myron.  Thanksgiving.  Broken glasses and spilt scotch.”

“Oh, my God!  Thanksgiving with the extended Barnes clan.  His ability to balance that glass every year was the stuff of legend!  Your poor Ma …” he shook his head, chuckling.  “I’m gonna go grab some more wood,” he announced, and hurried out to the back porch, leaving Bucky to melt into the couch, but not before he set his drink on the side table. 

He lay there, starfished and boneless, because he was Allowed, because he was a Person and not an Asset, and he was encouraged to want things and like things and have things, and be lazy if that’s what he wanted to be.  His therapist knew, but he’d never told Steve, about how he capitalized words in his head, or how he had to remind himself some days that he was Bucky and not the Asset, but then again, when he was with Steve, he didn’t have to.  When he was with Steve, he could strive to be the best version of himself, not struggle just to be a Self.

So he laid there, watching the fire leap and gutter in the fireplace, sending out long-limbed shadows on the walls.  They didn’t need a fire to keep warm – the place was efficiently heated by a state of the art heating system installed by none other than Tony Stark, and fueled by a mini arc reactor, the same source that powered the entire farm.  Truth be told, it wouldn’t take much to extend the power source to the town and all the farms in the surrounding county.  He’d have to talk to Steve about that. 

But even though the fire wasn’t needed for warmth, they both loved the glow and the flicker, the way it reminded them of earlier times, growing up in each other’s pockets, then again at the front, where the fire gave them a welcome respite from the bone-shattering cold of the Alps.  Here, it enveloped them in warmth and light, a little cocoon of comfort built for two.

He must have dozed off in the firelight, comfortable in the haze of heat that spread out into the room from the hearth.  Steve was back now, crouched down to feed a few new pieces of wood into the voracious maw of the fire.  He lay there, watching the way that the muscles defined his back, moving and shifting as he did, a dance in and of themselves.  He loved watching Steve move, contented himself with ogling his beautiful boyfriend as he chopped wood, made dinner, stoked the fire, or just sat there with a pencil behind his ear and another in his hand as he sketched something from memory or imagination.

He let his head loll to the side a bit so he could get a better view of Steve’s ass.  There was so much to love about Steve, and his ass was something no one seemed able to resist.  Bucky didn’t even try.

“I can feel you staring,” Steve said then, his deep voice full of humor as he slid another piece into the flame.

“Admirin’ what you got on offer,” Bucky murmured through a sly grin.

“Who said anything about offering?”

“I gotta ask?”

Steve looked over his shoulder and shook his head.  “It’s yours for the taking, Buck.  You don’t ever gotta ask.  I shouldn’a have to offer – it just is.”

“Yeah, okay.”  He spread his hands to encompass his slothful self.  “Likewise.”

Steve smirked at him, shaking his head as he turned back to his task.  Bucky knew he was a sight, slumped down and spread out, half asleep and dopey.  He was dopey for this punk, had been since –

_Cousin Maisie had got a part in the chorus of some Broadway revue, and she’d scraped together two tickets for a Saturday matinee.  It was a dress rehearsal with a paying audience, but still.  She’d figured he’d bring a girl, his sweetheart, but instead he’d brought Steve, and they’d sat through the whole thing, munching peanuts and drinking sodas from the fountain in the lobby, tapping toes and shoving shoulders through it all.  Maisie hadn’t thought a thing of it, Steve was practically an honorary Barnes, the brother Bucky’d wished for but never got._

_When the lights had gone down over a flowered trellis, and a pretty girl in a long, shimmering green dress took her place under the spotlight, the strings had started to play. Both boys had watched, rapt, as the girl was joined by a tall man in a tuxedo, his hair slicked back and his collar high.  They’d danced then, slow, sinuous, back to front, hands outstretched as they seemed to reach for something, something special and just out of range.  They were mesmerizing, magical._

_Bucky had glanced over and seen the way that Steve looked, eyes wide, lips parted, color high on his cheeks, and so ethereally beautiful, Bucky’d felt his heart stutter, and his lungs hold, afraid he’d break the spell._

_Steve must’ve felt Bucky’s eyes on him, because he’d turned and smiled at him, a smile that came up from the soul, sweet and glowing._

And that was the first time that Bucky could remember wanting to kiss Steve.  Wanting to hold him in his arms like the man held the woman on the stage, hold him close and sway to the music, dance with him back to front, spin him and wrap himself up in Steve and never let go.

He felt the remembered desire so keenly, he thought he could feel the heat of Steve’s skin running from shoulder to toes, the breathless sensation of discovery, of yearning so deep, it was part of his very soul.

“I think … I think I’ve loved you for a long time,” he said softly, but he knew that Steve would hear him.  Blessing or curse, enhanced hearing was one of the things their respective serums had gifted them.

Steve turned then, head tilted to one side, and one eyebrow raised.  “Yeah?”

“Yeah.  Before.  Before the serum, before the war.  Before … before your Ma, even.  I think I loved you before I understood what that meant,” he whispered, awestruck, staring into the middle distance, brow furrowed as he tried to tease out more of the memory.

It didn’t come, but when he glanced up, he decided that he didn’t care if memory eluded him for the moment.  Instead, his lips spread in a delighted smile at the sight of Steve Rogers, all six foot two of him, stalking across the floor on hands and knees.  Steve on his knees, that was always a good look, but predatory Steve, looking every inch a jungle cat bent on … _taking him_ … he felt the anticipation shiver through him like it was a living thing.  And the smile that lit up Steve’s eyes … well.  Couldn’t blame a fella if he popped a woody at that sight, now could ya?

“Before everything, huh?” Steve asked, stopping between Bucky’s spread legs, his big hands smoothing warm and firm up Bucky’s thighs, fingers hooking into the loops of Bucky’s jeans to tug him further down the couch – or closer to Steve, depending on your perspective.

Bucky preferred closer to Steve, and so he pressed his hands behind him to lever himself up so he was chest to chest with the god who loved him.  “Maybe even before,” he whispered into the kiss that seemed the inevitable conclusion to their pantomime.

Steve’s hands threaded into his hair, stroked softly against his scalp, and down the back of his neck.  “And what did you want to do with me?  Before?” Steve asked before closing his mouth over Bucky’s leaving no space for talking for a while.

When they parted to draw breath again, Bucky answered.  “Dance.  I wanted to dance with you.”

“You do dance with me.  Every week, Wednesday and Friday, with the occasional exhibition,” Steve murmured, kissing up the side of Bucky’s neck, pausing to nibble and suck at his earlobe.  Bucky’s eyes fluttered shut, a sigh of contentment escaping his lips.

“Like we saw.  That time at Maisie’s show,” Bucky gasped out as Steve’s teeth trailed a line of fire over his jaw.

Steve pulled back at that, eyebrows bunched together as he thought about this revelation.  "The fella and the gal?  That slow dance?” Steve prompted, his hand trailing up Bucky’s chest to curl around his nape, fingers touching his other hand as he held Bucky gently.

Bucky nodded.  “Wanted to feel you against me.  Wanted to … I dunno.  Float with you.”

Steve’s eyes were already dark with arousal, but now they became completely eclipsed.  “That was one of the hottest things I’d ever seen.  Erotic.  I … I wondered.  What it would feel like.  With you,” he stumbled over his words, swallowing thickly.

Without another word, they both rose, hands reaching for each other.  Bucky looked into Steve’s eyes and smiled, reveling in the smile that Steve returned as they rested their foreheads together, breath ghosting over each other’s lips for a moment before Steve smiled wider and turned in Bucky’s arms. 

Bucky let his hand slide slowly up Steve’s ribs, enjoying the sensation of strength and stability, heat and health.  He nuzzled into Steve’s hair as his hands continued along the tension of Steve’s arms, biceps and triceps, onto the delicate flesh of his wrist pulse points, and over the backs of his large, powerful hands.  Steve curled his fingers back against Bucky’s palms, stretched his neck to rest his head against Bucky’s shoulder, and breathed deep in unison with Bucky.  And then they started to move, slow, sinuous, aware of every muscle, every tendon, the pulse beating under warm skin, the slide of limbs under cloth, the heat and nearness and the glory that was the other.

He’d imagined it in his memory.

His memory had been clear, but his imagination was nothing beside the reality of Steve in his arms, pressed against his chest, his abdomen, his groin, and his thighs.

“We’re gettin’ quite the repertoire,” Steve breathed, swaying with the music that only Bucky could hear.

“Might have to take this show on the road.  Hit the boards, a new city every night.”

“Been there, done that.  ‘S’boring.  But maybe not with you.  Chorus girls were nice, but they weren’t home.”

“And me?”

“Home.  Always.  Forever.”

Bucky froze for a moment, caught in an onslaught of memory, a cascade of images, sounds, feelings, tumbling through his mind, all echoing the same thing.

Wherever Steve was, Bucky was home.

He spun Steve then, one hand holding Steve’s folded between their chests, the other snaking around to the small of his back as he drew him close and kissed him.  “Til the end of the line, and the line never ends,” he whispered fiercely.  “I love you, punk,” he added, rubbing his nose against Steve’s before he kissed him again, soft, sweet, a promise and a prayer.

“Love you, too, jerk,” Steve breathed back.  “Now dance me to bed, and let me show you how much.”

Now that was a memory worth keeping.

END

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from The Way We Were, a song that was a huge hit for Barbra Streisand, and has always held great meaning for me.
> 
>  
> 
> **The Way We Were**
> 
>  
> 
> Memories  
> Light the corners of my mind  
> Misty watercolor memories  
> Of the way we were
> 
> Scattered pictures  
> Of the smiles we left behind  
> Smiles we gave to one another  
> For the way we were
> 
> Can it be that it was all so simple then  
> Or has time rewritten every line  
> If we had the chance to do it all again  
> Tell me, would we?  
> Could we?
> 
> Memories  
> May be beautiful and yet  
> What's too painful to remember  
> We simply choose to forget  
> Photos
> 
> So it's the laughter  
> We will remember  
> Whenever we remember  
> The way we were  
> The way we were
> 
> 1973 by Alan Bergman, Marilyn Bergman and Marvin Hamlisch
> 
> &&&
> 
> And hey, Fandom Trumps Hate 2018 is gearing up. Check out their Tumblr at <http://fandomtrumpshate.tumblr.com/>
> 
> And while you're at it, check out mine at <http://debwalsh.tumblr.com> \- come inside my Stucky Museum, check out all manner of nonsense. And cats. There are lots of cats. And even more Buckys ...


End file.
